Friday, March 25, 2005

I was a superstar in my winter league. It had a lot to do with the fact that my teammates and opponents were hockey moms. Average age was 40. Average knowledge of the offsides rule ranked at nonexistent. And most of them couldn’t exactly skate. Or get up if they fell.

My hockey career launched last spring, on a team with a bunch of kids I coach with. The guys who coach skating geared towards hockey players agreed to play with a handful of figure skating instructors. Because they’re suckers for cheap entertainment.

This spring’s hockey team is a reprieve of last spring’s hockey coach/figure skating coach dynamic. We moved up a division, for no other reason than to humble and humiliate those of us who were not born wearing hockey skates.

Last night’s game was our first. The thrilling 7-0 defeat included the debut of the A-Meg-Dad line, which from now on will be referred to as the Death on Skates line.

The Death on Skates line will live in infamy.

Dad took a shot on goal and was near the net when the referee blew the whistle. Meggie saw the goalie take a shot at Dad after the whistle was blown. She didn’t like it.

Meggie skated to the goalie and politely inquired “what the fuck was that?”

And the goalie cracked her in the face.

Meggie bleeds from her lip. Daddy gets in the goalie’s face. I decide that the most intelligent thing to do is to call the goalie a cunt and go back to the bench before I:a. do something stupidb. am bloodiedc. am laughed at by the other team for my lack of skill and failure to come to the defense of my father and my sister.

Fast forward to end of game.

Hockey coach/figure skating coach/Dad/Meg team lines up to shake hand with opponents.

Hi. I'm A.

Born, raised, educated in the Midwest, I am such a Midwesterner. So Midwestern, if you will.

I am: a blogger of 8+ years, forever searching for my next athletic challenge, hopelessly overscheduled and always, always eating.

I started So Midwestern right after I graduated from college, hoping to chronicle my transition to adulthood. Graduate school, four half marathons, two new nephews, three apartments, a trip to Africa, a sprinkle of heartbreak, dozens of unfinished knitting projects, four turns as a bridesmaid, 8,913 job applications and two full-time positions later: I’m fairly convinced that the day when I feel like a legitimate, full-fledged grownup will never come. So I’ll just keep on blogging.

I write about a little bit of everything and a lot of nothing. Toss my ramblings with a few pictures, a touch of swearing and an endless appreciation for the beauty that is David Beckham and you have So Midwestern. Welcome.